


interlude in silence

by LeftHook



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-25 22:14:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13844115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftHook/pseuds/LeftHook
Summary: “Are you getting enough Vitamin C?” Eliza said.Hamilton’s second sneeze echoed throughout the offices.“You don’t look like you’re getting enough vitamin C,” she said.





	interlude in silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moonjockey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonjockey/gifts).



> for @moonjockey, who requested classic hamilton sickfic. happy presidents day 2018, ol pal.

“Are you getting enough Vitamin C?” Eliza said. 

Hamilton’s second sneeze echoed throughout the offices.

“You don’t look like you’re getting enough vitamin C,” she said. “Here, I’ve got an orange.”

“No, no, witch hazel, for real though,” said Maria Reynolds, the financial officer, leaning over the cube wall. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the 2:00 meeting telling us what we don’t have the budget for?” said Hamilton crossly. 

“Did you know that zinc is actually proven in scientific studies to shorten the duration of colds?” said Peggy helpfully, popping up from her workstation behind the water jug. Hamilton jumped and cursed. He always forgot there was an intern stuck back there. 

“I don’t need oranges and I don’t need zinc. Peggy, are those reports finished yet? We’re on deadline here, people, in case you’ve forgotten?!” 

He must have been losing his edge, because all three women just kept right on talking. “My auntie always swore by echinacea,” Eliza said thoughtfully. 

“Auntie Margareta?” Peggy said scornfully. “You’re talking about the same woman that won’t eat iodized salt, right?” 

“Everyone knows iodized salt is a tool propagated by the government to control the minds of the electorate,” Angelica said, breezing in, trailing interns and tasteful perfume. 

“Ange!” Eliza said. “How did the meet’n’greet go?” 

“Eating out of the palm of my hand. No sweat. We’ll get that million for the scholarships program next year,” Angelica said. She looked at Hamilton. “Jesus, Alexander, you look like something the alley cat dragged in. Go home, we can handle it from here.”

Hamilton threw up his hands. “If I thought anyone was going to do any work around here, I’d consider it!” His voice scratched pitifully rather than pointedly. 

“Oh Alexander,” Eliza said sadly.

“You’re being very silly,” Angelica said. “You and I have hired everyone here and they’re all fantastic. Let them do their jobs.” 

“This speech needs at least two more revisions before Saturday!” Hamilton said, waving it. “And did you know the potted plants people canceled and there’s no one in the tri-county area that has openings? What are we—” He broke off into a wracking cough. The women watched as he coughed, getting redder and redder. 

“Peggy? Get some water for Typhoid Mary over here, would you?” Angelica said. 

“What he really needs is tea,” Eliza said. 

“Tea,” Hamilton rasped. “Two days out, our agenda not even nailed down and she’s talking about tea. Of all the things that matter least in the entire—”

“I happen to know a few historians who think differently,” said a deep voice, and Hamilton jumped, but he wasn’t the only one, he wasn’t. Four faces swiveled around to see Senator George Washington, tall and dark and amused, hands in the pockets of his sleek charcoal suit at the office door. “Sorry, the receptionist was out, so I let myself in,” he said. 

“Oh, no! Sorry, Senator,” “That’s okay!” “Senator Washington! What are you—!” 

He blinked at the onslaught of sound. Only Hamilton was stuck, frozen and flushed, in place. Why did Washington only ever show up when he was pacing in his rattiest thinking sweatpants or coughing up a storm or screaming at another senator in the Capitol hallways (for instance, although reports of that situation were extremely exaggerated, thank you very much Politico)?

“I had a few things I needed to discuss downstairs with your friends in the think tank, so I stopped by early,” Washington said. 

Angelica had moved immediately to intercept, on the ball as always, and was shaking his hand. “Hello, Ms. Schuyler,” he said warmly, but then his eyes slid over her shoulder to human disaster Alexander Hamilton with his hair sticking up and red face, and twinkled at him. “Mr. Hamilton. A pleasure as always.” 

“Sir,” Hamilton said. “I’d shake your hand, but—”

“Oh no!” Eliza said, with genuine dismay. “We wouldn’t want you to get sick. Sir, Hamilton may not want to admit it, but he really shouldn’t even be in the office today.” 

“Is that so?” Washington came closer, _why why why why_. “You do look a bit peaky,” Washington said, and before Hamilton could force a word past his dry tongue, reached out and pressed the back of his broad hand against Hamilton’s forehead. 

This, on top of Hamilton’s general condition, was nearly too much. Washington was too close, too tall, too warm and broad and concerned, laugh lines around his eyes too clearly outlined at this proximity. Hamilton’s breath strangled in his throat at the touch, and because he was congested, it came out as half a truly horrifying gargle. 

Washington peered at him with alarm. “You should take better care of yourself, Hamilton,” he said, and Hamilton could not stop his eyes from darting up to meet Washington’s, warm and dark and troubled. _God._ Disaster, in every single sense. “I need my right-hand policy man,” Washington said, moving his hand to Hamilton’s shoulder, squeezing just tight enough to send a frission through Hamilton’s entire body. 

Right. Policy. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled. 

“Believe me, Senator, if I had anything to say about it he’d be home in bed,” Angelica said. “I’ll have Maria look into chains to lock him down. In the meantime, shall we get the call underway?”

If Hamilton could have killed her with his eyes in that moment, he would not have hesitated. He was sick, not dead, and talking about chains and bed and Washington was not—an—image—he—needed—

“Get some rest, Director,” Washington said, and then he was striding towards the conference room. “I’ve got some Purell, sir, really,” Eliza was saying. 

Hamilton sat down before he fell over. 

 

He could not, of course, stay home sick, not with the single biggest event of the year barreling towards them and the programs not even finalized yet. 

It was fine even if Eliza recoiled in horror at his appearance Saturday morning, five a.m. sharp in the darkness, coffee in hand. “Alexander,” she said, soft, and Hamilton sped past her to his office. “I’m fine,” he called back over his shoulder. 

He couldn’t choke anything down for lunch, which was fine because his throat felt like he was gargling glass with every word. It was fine, fine, fine, it was almost over. All of the morning panels had gone without a hitch, the custom hashtag for the event was trending in D.C., the media relations people had checked in nineteen reporters including the crustiest of the Economist’s finance columnists, he just had three panels and a keynote to go and he’d be basically home free. 

So it was, of course, at the last panel of the day, in which he, two World Bank economists and a Cato Institute wonk were waiting backstage for their debate, when he started coughing and couldn’t stop. 

“S’fine,” he wheezed at the Cato Institute guy, who was staring at him with distaste. His mic wasn’t turned on yet, it was fine. 

His legs locked weirdly underneath him. He looked down at them, confused, put a hand out for the wall, and missed.

Then he opened his eyes and blinked at a bunch of faces in front of the ceiling.

“What the hell?” he would have said, except that all that came out was a rushing of air and a truly awful stab of pain in his throat. 

He was—he was on the ground, the backstage flooring under his legs, and—and—a warm hand on his shoulder and heat at his back. He tilted his head, wincing at the pain in his neck, and found Washington’s face, large dark eyebrows furrowed. 

No, no, no, no no. Protests rose in his throat and he tried to get them out but it hurt. He gagged instead, and tears sprang to his eyes. 

“Aleaxnder,” Washington said, and his voice was so concerned and soothing that it made everything five hundred times worse. He touched Hamilton’s chin gently with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his back. “Just breathe. You’re all right.” 

It had to be some kind of bizarre fever dream, it had to be. He took a deep breath in and out and again and again, and some of the panic receded. 

Eliza’s face appeared next to Washington’s. “Alex,” she said. “Are you all right? You just fell over. I was about to call an ambulance. Should I—” 

He shook his head rapidly. He just needed a second to collect his wits, and maybe like a smoothie or something to get his blood sugar up and then he could go back to the debate—

“Let’s get you back to the green room, at least,” Washington said. “Eliza, if you’d take care of the others here. I’m sure Alexander doesn’t appreciate the audience.” 

“Yessir,” Eliza said. Washington turned to him. “Do you think you can stand, Alex?” he said, more gently.

It took far too long for him to process anything other than the name on Washington’s lips. Hamilton tried to sit up, and swayed. Washington’s palm went between his shoulders to support him.

“Okay,” Washington said. “Is it okay if I help you up?” 

He nodded, still swaying, and the world shifted as Washington put an arm around his waist and moved him effortlessly upright. 

Hamilton’s legs weren’t exactly cooperating, so the arrangement they came to really wasn’t helping so much as carrying. It really wasn’t fair that he was feeling so utterly miserable, because Washington was sweeping along like he was nothing, arms sure and strong around him, and he fought the very, very irrational and terrible urge to bury his face in Washington’s chest. 

Washington set him down on a couch in the green room, shed his jacket to lay it over Hamilton’s legs, and went to fill a glass at the sink. Hamilton watched him with a sense of profound unreality. 

“Here,” Washington said, and handed him the glass. His fingers lingered at Hamilton’s hand, and he sat down at the edge of the couch.

The water was cool and wonderful on his throat. Swallowing hurt, but if he just got a little water everything would be okay, he could go back— 

“You frightened us, Alexander,” Washington said quietly. 

“Sorry,” Hamilton tried to whisper. But nothing came out—nothing. 

His hand came up to his throat. His voice—his _voice_. Hamilton couldn’t stop his frightened gaze from locking with Washington’s, panicked, helpless, stripped of his only power. To his horror, tears began to well in his eyes. 

His voice was all he had. Even when he’d had nothing else in the world he’d had his words.

Washington’s hand moved to stroke a thumb over his cheekbone. “It’s all right,” he said, low and soothing. “You just need rest, and you’ll feel better so soon, I promise.” 

Hamilton shut his eyes and focused on the sound of his voice, on the feel of the pad of his thumb over his hot skin. He leaned into Washington’s palm. When he finally opened his eyes, Washington was looking at him with an expression he could not possibly have described. 

“Alexander!” Eliza burst into the room, followed shortly by Angelica and Peggy. 

Washington’s hand fell away from his face as the girls huddled around him. “Alex! Alexander! Are you all right? What happened?”

“He appears to have lost his voice,” Washington said. 

“Oh, Alex,” Angelica said, with fond exasperation. “This is going to drive you crazy, isn’t it? Let that be your punishment.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out her laptop, opened a word document, and handed it to him. 

He spared one look of abject gratitude before his fingers began flying over the keys.  
WHAT HAPPENED?

“I saw it all,” Eliza said. “I was leading Washington backstage, we both saw it. You just pitched over. You fell into that Cato Institute guy.” 

Hamilton made a face of distaste. 

“That is….approximately the face that he made,” Eliza said. 

“Hamilton,” Washington said sternly, though when Hamilton looked at him he was sure there was a suppressed smile at the corners of his mouth. “If he hadn’t caught you, you could have had a nasty knock on the head.” 

“Yeah, you’ll have to write him a nice thank-you note,” Eliza said, and Hamilton screwed his face up further. She knocked her hand lightly against his shoulder. It was good to see her smile, since she’d been looking at him like he was about to keel over any second. Which, to be fair, he had. HOW LONG WAS I OUT? he typed. 

“Oh, not long. Maybe thirty seconds,” she said. “Just long enough for us to get over to you.” 

THE DEBATE????? He cast a glance over at Washington, who had been supposed to moderate. Washington did not look in the least concerned about it. 

“It’s going ahead. Jefferson was in the area, and he very graciously agreed to step in,” Angelica said. 

Hamilton threw his head against the back of the couch. No! Besides the obvious, repellent thought that Jefferson had to hear about him showing weakness of any kind—god forbid, might have _seen_ it—Jefferson could _not_ be stepping in. He was going to twist everything around. JEFFERSON IS NOT A NEUTRAL PARTY!! he lunged forward to type. HE CANNOT BE A MODERATOR. HE ***WROTE*** THE GODDAMN ’12 LAW. WE NEED TO—

He looked up to see four people regarding him with suspiciously identical indulgent expressions. He waved peevishly at them. I’M THE ONE THAT HAD THE NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCE, SHOULDN’T YOU ALL BE JUMPING UP??

Angelica patted him on the shoulder and rose. “I’ll call you a Lyft home. Peggy’s getting your stuff.” 

NO, WAIT—

“I don’t even need to know what you’re typing,” Angelica said. “In exchange for me not calling you an ambulance, you’re going straight home, you are going to eat the soup I have sent to your apartment, and you will not show your nose anywhere near the office for. Three. Days.” 

Hamilton’s mouth fell open. Three days? A blatant—outrageous—completely unreasonable—

“And you’ll send us all a couple of texts a day so we can make sure you haven’t faceplanted in your soup,” Angelica continued blithely on. 

“It’s for the best, darling,” Eliza said. “Catch up on _The Good Place_. I’ll come over when we’re done and keep you company for a bit.” She rose, too, but then she leaned over the couch to take Hamilton’s face in her hands. “You gave me half a heart attack, you jerk. You have to be better next time.” 

At this range Hamilton could not avoid the sincerity in her liquid brown eyes. He looked back at her, for the one moment grateful that he could not, in fact, say anything.

“Stop looking so sad,” she said, letting go of his face to dab at her eyes a little. “We’re the ones you scared half to death. I’m going to go get you a smoothie.” 

He caught her hand and squeezed it, as she turned. “Jerk,” she said, and squeezed back.

Washington stayed. At some point his hand had found its way onto Hamilton’s calf, and it was there still, a warm weight. After a few moments of silence, Hamilton typed and turned it around so he could see: SORRY. 

Washington said nothing for a long moment, though his hand tightened slightly on Hamilton’s leg. The faint sound of applause filtered through from the hall. Hamilton squirmed as the silence stretched, unable to break it. 

How was he going to survive this? 

“I’m very glad you’re all right, as well,” Washington said, finally, and his eyes rose to meet Hamilton’s. “It was—very distressing, seeing you—” He broke off. 

Hamilton held his breath. If he hadn’t felt so residually terrible, he might have been very, very tempted to do something stupid at that moment. 

Also, he had no voice to do it in, and he might have been accused of bluntness once or twice or a thousand times in his life, but one thing he was not going to do was beg a U.S. Senator for a date on a fucking word document. 

He nodded instead, swallowed and winced. Washington looked at him for another long, long moment, his gaze wandering over Hamilton’s face, and then he squeezed Hamilton’s leg again, and let go. 

Ah. Well. What did he really have to lose? 

Hamilton typed quickly. At the sound of keys typing, Washington turned back. 

COULD YOU GIVE ME A HAND TO THE DOOR? JUST WANT TO MAKE SURE I’M STEADY. 

Washington studied him. “Of course.” 

He reached to slip a hand around Hamilton's waist. With the other, he took Hamilton’s hand and guided it around his shoulder. 

There was only a split second of lightheadedness as they rose. Entirely worth it for the warmth of Washington’s fingers on his wrist, the faint, delicious smell of cologne and coffee, the solid line of him pressed along Hamilton from hip to shoulder. 

“Alex, here’s your—Oh!” Eliza stopped at the door. “Oh—oh,” she said again, and bless her, but subterfuge was not among his best friend’s many, many talents. Hamilton’s entire body began to flush as she said, “Oh. Well. Senator. That’s a good idea, isn’t it! He might still need a hand, right? Probably best if you walk him to the back door, don’t you think?” 

“I do agree, Ms. Schuyler,” Washington said gravely. 

He could not look at Washington.

“Great!” Eliza said brightly. “The Lyft is waiting out back. I’ll grab your stuff. You two go ahead.” 

The phantom feel of broad palms lingered on his waist all the way home.

 

“Guess who’s BAAAAAAACK!” 

Peggy jumped as Hamilton planted a hand on the half-wall at the front and leapt over in a single bound. Eliza was laughing. 

“Did you miss me?” he said, shedding backpacks and coffee thermos and papers in a whirlwind.

“It was suspiciously peaceful around here,” Eliza said, putting her hand to her chin and pretending to think. “Now that you mention it.” 

“Well, I brought you all donuts, because I am a beautiful human being surrounded by ingrates,” he said, depositing a slightly squashed box on the center table. Peggy squealed. “No way, Sweet Torus??”

“Only the best for my ingrates,” he said, stopping to give Eliza a kiss on the cheek. 

She grinned at him. “Welcome back, Alexander.” 

Angelica came out to lean against her office door, smiling. She held out a fist for Hamilton to bump as he went by. “It’s good to see your face, dork,” she said. 

She followed him into his office, which was still piled knee-deep in papers on every surface. God, was he glad to be back.

“The board is incredibly pleased with the event last weekend," Angelica said. "So here’s the fourteen projects on deck.” She dumped a thick stack of papers on his desk. “But first. Special assignment from Washington’s office. They said he wants to rewrite the Hawkins bill to include the marginal tax credit.”

Hamilton’s eyes shot up to hers. She winked at him. “Watch your back, Hamilton, next time we have a policy we need to get into a bill. Or I might hire someone to conveniently put you in peril.” 

She went out. 

Mouth still open, Hamilton looked down at the provision he’d been trying to convince the Hill to include for months, the gears clicking gently in his head, slower than Angelica’s, probably, but they got the job done.

Then he put the thoughts carefully into a box and dove headfirst into the draft. He wasn’t so lucky that he didn’t need to jump on every second of a possible opportunity.

 

He was on draft four when, a little past three, he swam out of a haze of numbers to a soft fuss of noise in the main office. It wasn’t until, “Alexander,” that he snapped his head up and promptly spilled cold coffee on the scribbled-over printouts of draft two. 

“Sir. —Ah, shit!” he said, and hopped up. Washington watched calmly, leaning a hip against the door, as he swept the wet papers into the trash can, leaving a smear of dark roast on the desk. It was only then that he realized his white shirt had caught some of the spill. “Shit,” he said again. “Please—come in—I’m just—looking for—”

Washington took a step in. Hamilton swore under his breath, searching his drawers in vain for some wadded-up takeout napkins he swore had been in there at some point. 

“Here,” Washington said. He looked up. Washington was pulling, of all things, a handkerchief from his pocket. Of course. 

Washington moved closer. Hamilton went very, very still as Washington pressed the handkerchief to his ribcage, against the coffee stain.

The zing that went through him at the cool damp cloth and the warmth of Washington’s hand—the sight of his broad, wide-knuckled hand on Hamilton’s stomach—did—was—he’d better because Hamilton could not—was going to—

It was only at that moment, his eyes darting helplessly out to the office, that he realized that Washington had closed the office door behind him. 

He looked up. Washington was looking down at him, and the intensity of it sent his heart banging painfully in his chest. 

“Alexander,” Washington said again. Lower. The hand on his side had stopped moving, but it hadn’t left his ribs. Hamilton tilted his head up as the other hand came up to brush a gentle touch beneath his chin. “You look much better.” 

“I’m feeling better,” he found the breath to say. “Thanks to you.” Prayed the hand wouldn’t leave him. “And I got my voice back two days ago.”

“I was hoping you would,” Washington said, “because I have a question I want to ask you.” 

His thumb slid along the line of his jaw and Hamilton’s eyes fell shut, his lips parting, kept his hips from jerking forward into Washington by force of will.

God. Hamilton licked his lips. Couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Sir. With all due respect. If it’s anything other than _can I bend you over this desk and make you scream in every language you know_ , I’m going to have to—”

The rest of his sentence disappeared into Washington’s mouth. Hamilton gasped at the strength, the heat of it, his hands coming up to clasp the lapels of Washington’s suit. 

It felt so good, the hands now at his back, the fine twill of Washington’s coat under his fingers, the whiff of familiar cologne. He angled his head back so that Washington could devour him. “Alexander,” Washington growled against his throat between kisses. Hamilton moaned, and this time, did not check the motion of his hips. 

Washington pulled back. Hamilton made a noise of protest, but was gratified to see the dilated pupils, the chest rising and falling, the flush faintly visible under Washington’s dark skin in the bright light of his office. 

“I think there may be better places to continue this…discussion,” Washington said, though he did not release his grip on Hamilton’s waist. 

“Mmm, not sure I agree,” Hamilton said, and Washington made a soft sound of amusement. 

“Are you free tonight?” 

“I am now.”

“Good,” Washington purred, sending a shiver of adrenaline straight down Hamilton’s spine. “My place, eight?” 

Hamilton licked his lips. “Yes, sir,” he said, and watched, pleased, as Washington’s mouth parted slightly. 

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said. He let go. Hamilton regretted it very fiercely. How could he possibly make it to eight o’clock?

“Oh, and Alexander,” Washington said, from the door. “The next time you want me to carry you. Just ask.” 

He winked and left, leaving Hamilton squirming with embarrassment…and a hundred new fantasies.


End file.
